Beyond Description
by mayprincess
Summary: There was nothing between them. Not then. Not now. When his book came out, she didn't call. She didn't email. No handwritten letter. For a week anyway. After all, it was her inclination to just show up in Brooklyn.  Set after 5x04 with some extra stuff.


**Author's Note: Umm...I'm not really sure what this is. But, if you've read some of my other stuff, I just want to warn you. A.) This does not end happy. B.) There is Dair smut. C.) If you're concerned about Dan looking like an idiot or Blair looking like a bia-tch, don't read this. That is all. If my warnings haven't scared you off, I'd love to hear your input.**

**Beyond Description**

It wasn't a pattern. More like an inclination.

She felt lonely. She felt down. She felt bored. She felt like she had gained a pound. She would show up.

Or summon him.

He could never quite decide if the call was akin to the Batman signal or a phone-in to a high class whore. Was he helping her? Saving her? Or was she just using him.

He'd put his foot down over the summer. She had called. Emailed. She even hand-wrote a letter. He spent hours tracing the curves of her "B".

But he stood his ground. He whittled away his summer in the Hamptons alone, avoiding her and her problems. Dulled the missing her with the mundane. Thought about her at night when he couldn't sleep. Tried to tire himself with the few fleeting moments when they touched. Died a little each morning when he awoke without her small frame pulled tightly to his own.

But he stood his ground. Not once did he respond to her.

Until she showed up again. Decked in green and white. Bare neck aching to be kissed. Standing there appealing to his savior tendencies. "Take me there." He would take her anywhere. And he caved. She knew it. She saw the look in his eyes.

Halfway between adoration and desire. And he was hooked.

Again. Stunned by the Waldorf charm.

But later. "How could you let that happen?" she accused with Louis at her back. "_Why_ would you?"

And he cringed. She knew why. It was the same reason he had avoided her all summer.

"What possible reason could you have?" she demanded. And then waited. Was she challenging him? She knew why. She was the most intuitive person he knew.

His foot went down again. He wouldn't be Blair Waldorf's fool. More of one anyway.

Her face almost looked hurt at his omission. She sighed - more of a huff. "Come on, Louis," she said dejectedly. "Let's go." And then just for him, "I'm _done_ here."

Part of him hoped that would be the last of this torture.

But it was an inclination.

She felt lonely. She felt down. She felt bored. She felt scared. She would show up.

She said it was because he was the only one she could have a "furtively loaded conversation with" or he was the only one who would "protect her from her own worst instincts". He was fairly certain it was just to torture him. He'd always sit an arm's length away. She'd always fall into him. He'd sigh at the smell of her hair. The softness of her skin.

The same smell and touch from another night they weren't allowed to talk about anymore.

Her orders. Not his.

Her secret. Not his.

She had a life. Future. Plans.

There was nothing between them. Not then. Not now.

When his book came out, she didn't call. She didn't email. No handwritten letter.

For a week anyway. After all, it was an inclination.

She showed up.

Maybe because she felt lonely. Maybe because she felt down. Maybe because she was looking for an ego boost from the Labrador in love with her.

And he let her in against his better judgment.

"Do you think I'm a bad person?" Curt and to the point as usual.

"Hello, Blair." He moved aside to let her traipse in.

She didn't budge. "Do you think I'm a bad person?"

He tilted his head. "No." Then added, "Not exactly. I feel like we've had this conversation alrea-"

"Do you think I'm a good person?" she asked, her tone softening as she finally walked through the door.

He smirked, feeling his hair bounce as he shook his head. "No. Not exactly." Then off of her hurt look. "Although your heart's in the right place," he hesitated to finish. "Some of the time."

"Then why are we friends?"

He felt the corners of his mouth lift against his will as he closed the door. "We're friends again?"

"I'll deny it if anyone of consequence asks," she practically spit out, "but yes. We are."

"Maybe we're friends because you're _so_ charming." Sure he was the Labrador in love with her, but he didn't need to greet her condescension with pleasantry.

"I'm being serious." And the look in her eyes was genuine. She was holding a white flag, and he couldn't fight her anymore.

She sat down. He followed. An arm's length away, of course.

"I don't know," he sighed, leaving _why we're friends_ off of his sentence. Were they friends? He felt so much more. He wanted so much more. He imagined so much more. "Maybe I see it as my job to make sure you use your powers for good."

She recoiled for a moment. "So we're friends out of a misguided notion that you have to protect the world from me and my evil ways?" she asked pointedly.

"No," he said. He hadn't meant that. "You make unfounded leaps."

"Then, answer the question so I don't infer incorrectly." She moved a little closer. "Why are you friends with me?"

Her nearness made him lose concentration. Her hair smelled nice. Her soft skin was so close. He gulped in a traitorous way, and he swore he saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes at his discomfort. "We like the same things," he finally said. Lame, but accurate. "Art, movies, books, obscure political references. And you're freakishly clever. I mean, I'm actually scared to play Scrabble with you. I've had nightmares about it."

"You dream about playing Scrabble with me?" Her tone skeptical.

"No." Well that wasn't exactly true. This one time he dreamt about starting to play, and then the situation took a turn for the less academic. "Actually," he amended, "I dream about _preparing_ to play Scrabble. We've never made it to the board."

He stared at her large doe eyes a little too long, and his tone dropped just a little too much. Her head tilted, and it was like she had picked up on his inner thought. The quick flash of dream. The two of them. A table. A plaid skirt hitched up to her waist. Manicured nails digging into his back. Scrabble letters littering the floor in their frenzy.

"How sad," she remarked, her tone now lower as well as she studied his reaction. "Never making it to board must have been very unsatisfying."

And this was what he didn't understand. She said there was nothing. Not then. Not now. But the tease in her voice was unmistakable.

He almost fell into it, but the giant diamond ring on her hand was also unmistakable.

"Blair," he warned.

"What, Humphrey?" she asked, practically falling into him.

He stood up before her landing. "Maybe you should leave." It was curt and to the point. Maybe speaking her language would sink in faster.

She didn't seem deterred. She stood as well. Standing close, but not close enough. His writer's brain wrote ten metaphors in the process. "I just got here," she smiled. "And from what I've heard, you could use a friend right now."

He gulped again. His Adam's apple always getting a workout in your presence. "You can't keep doing this."

"Doing what?" He almost scoffed at her innocence.

"Showing up here and -" he couldn't quite finish. What did she show up here to do? Feed off of his obvious admiration. Drag him along? Dare him to do or say something they both knew she would only give him scorn for afterwards.

"And what?" she asked, her hooded eyes not matching her naive tone. "Discuss _Scrabble_?" It was the slight rise in her tone. The feigned innocence again. In all honesty, he wanted to pin her to wall every time he heard that little voice and saw he eyes look up at him in challenge.

But he didn't. "You made it clear that there was no Scrabble," he said, taking a step back. The word _Scrabble_ lined with alternate meaning. The kiss in her foyer had meant nothing _to her_. The kiss at the Pink Party was nothing more than a ploy _to her_. Before she left for Monaco, her showing up at his loft, drunk and nostalgic after a night out with Serena, had meant nothing _to her_. Even though they slept in the same bed, arms tangled, bodies pressed together, his warm words grazing her neck lulling her to sleep. It had meant nothing _to her_.

"Maybe just one little game to get it out of our system." He was certain her words were meant to drive him insane.

"One game?" Part of him was disappointed in himself for taking her bait. The other part couldn't be bothered to care because she had edged up closer to him, and he could almost feel her breath on his collar bone. "I don't want to be a secret Blair." He said the words, but there was no strength behind them. "I'm not cut out for the mistress role." These words did carry more strength, and he was able to take a step back.

"But you like when I'm around, right?" He sort of hated her in that moment because she bit her lip and all he could think about was the way she moaned into his mouth when he had done the same thing to her at the bottom of her steps.

And then again in Lily's guest room.

"That's not the point."

"I read your book," she said, still edging closer. "I know you want me."

He looked up. For guidance? For strength? No, mostly so he wouldn't make a fool of himself and kiss her right there. "That's also not the point."

This time, she pressed into him. "Then, what is the point?"

Emphasizing the word "point" had been a little unnecessary, he thought. A little tacky, but he still groaned as her hips made contact with his own. There was really no hiding how much he wanted her. "That you're engaged." The words came out strangled.

"That didn't stop you in the beginning of the summer," she said breaking her own pact to not discuss their night at the loft. "I mean, it's not like we made it to the board or anything," recalling the mangled Scrabble analogy, "but you didn't mind holding an engaged woman all through the night."

And that's when he woke up. "And it didn't stop you from leaving for Monaco either."

His words were cutting and clear. No longer drunk with lust. She looked hurt, and she stepped back. "You knew what this was."

They were awful words, and he hated her for them. "No," he said, shaking his head. His fist tensing up to channel the anger. "No, I didn't. I didn't think I'd feel this way about you. I didn't think I be consumed with thoughts of..." He didn't want to finish. He was done showing Blair Waldorf his hand.

"Scrabble?" she finished for him. Tactless, but to the point. Classic Blair.

He was angry now. Angry enough to forget that the woman standing in front of him was Blair Waldorf, future princess of Monaco. Angry enough to forget that this woman standing in front of him had told him that there was 'no us' and that 'they should keep their indiscretions a secret because really they meant nothing.' 'Nothing.' That was her word. Used over and over. Plausible deniably taken too far. "Scrabble?" he said, his jaw grinding with irritation. "Not quite."

His eyes searched hers. She looked how he felt. Unnerved. Heightened. Reckless.

His mouth descended on hers before he could think the impulse away. And when she pushed against him with equal force, he just pressed harder. Stripping her jacket off so he could gain better access to her skin, his hands groped at her warmth. She mirrored his behavior - his t-shirt already on the floor as he cupped her from behind, her legs wrapping around his hips in response.

Mouths locked, they stumbled into his bedroom. Her skirt hitched at her waist. His pants half undone. Her nails pulling him closer to her. Almost like his dream, but warmer. Hotter, really, because her skin was scorching next to his. He dropped her on the bed - in the brief moment before he joined her, already missing the heat. He kissed her neck, then trailed down to her stomach. Her body bucked up with each motion of his tongue, and he relished at the salty power he felt on top of her.

He watched her hand grip the sheets as he ran his hand up her inner leg, stopping just short of its heated destination. He could feel her already moist against his fingertips, her thighs shaking a bit in anticipation. "Please," she whimpered. He touched her then, but just lightly. Painstakingly lightly, as he pushed her blouse up with his other hand. Settling his mouth on the lace of her bra, she cried as his teeth flicked across the delicate fabric and her nipples hardened to an even higher point.

She grabbed at his half undone jeans, nearly ripping the last button off. And god, did he want to fuck her. He wanted to pin her underneath him. He wanted to push inside of her. There wouldn't even be any resistance. He was sure of it as he began to stroke between her legs a little harder. He could feel the skin on his back rising where her nails had been, and he wanted to mark her too. With his teeth. With his thumbs pressed on his wrists. He wasn't sure.

He had been so angry and she had been responding so positively to his roughness. But then he remembered. Below him lie one of the most beautiful women he had even been with. Her loose curls were splayed across the bed. Her teeth were nipping at her bottom lip, seemingly trying to hold in a louder cry of ecstasy. Her body was matching his. Her hands were pulling him in.

But...

But she was also pregnant.

With her fiancé's baby.

He stood straight up, pulling his jeans up and attempting to button them. "No," he stammered. "No. This isn't right."

Blair sat up, her feet hitting the floor but her teeth still holding her lower lip. She sighed. Utterly frustrated. "And I know," she said, trying to pull him closer to her, "it's your place to make sure I use my powers for good." She tugged him to the bed. Him standing. Her sitting. Her lips grazed his torso before she looked up at him to say, "But trust me, this is good."

He groaned. Audibly. And then ripped his body from hers.

"Blair, you're pregnant." Ice cold water against burning skin. "Louis deserves better."

She grabbed at her blouse. Straightened her skirt. Tears filled her eyes. "And what if I can't be better?" Her time to gulp.

He sat down next to her. At an arm's length, of course. "You can." Although it went against his better judgment. "If you love him, you can."

She fell into him. It was her natural inclination, after all. And he felt her body start to heave, and he felt warm tears sear his skin. "You do love him, right?" he asked, before putting his arm around her.

"He doesn't trust me," she said in a meek voice.

He tried not to laugh. "Stop giving him reasons to feel that way." He stood up and leant down in front of her. Taking her hands, he asked again with a crack in his voice, "You do love him, right?"

She hadn't said it yet. She said he was a great man. She said she was happy. But she hadn't said she loved him.

She stared at him, and he felt that same challenging look behind her eyes. _"What possible reason could you have?" _It was her turn to say something. Something meaningful. Something lacking in nothing. Something no one could deny.

But she didn't. Just like him.

She dropped his hands. "Of course, I love him," she said, her tears gone and voice business-like. "Who would marry someone they didn't love?"

He stood up. Resigned. This was just another secret to keep. "Fine," he said. "Then no more surprise trips to Brooklyn. As your friend, I don't want you ruin something you love." He wanted to sound bitter or angry, but in the end, he couldn't help but sound sad. And honest. In the end, he just wanted her to be happy. And right now, the only one she would allow that with was Louis.

"My skin was developing a rash due to the zip code anyway."

He laughed despite himself. He stood up in search of a shirt, grabbing one off of his bureau.

"And no more..." he started.

"Scrabble?" she offered, following him into the living room.

They were silent as she collected her things, and as she opened the door. Before stepping outside the loft, she turned and said, "Thank you, Humphrey."

"For what?" he practically croaked.

Her eyes rimmed with tears again, and he fought the urge to go to her and wrap her his arms. "For being there for me," she said. "I know I haven't made it easy for you."

She turned to leave when he called out, "Beyond description."

"Excuse me?" she asked, turning to face him again.

"That's why I'm your friend." She gave him a indefinable look. "You're beyond description."

"That must be difficult for you," she said after a moment of thinking.

"What?" he asked, clearly perplexed.

"Being a writer and all."

"Yeah," he lamented. "That's why it's difficult."

His heart ached as she closed the door softly behind her.

Apparently, breaking his heart had become an inclination, too.


End file.
